To Behold The Night
by MindBottled
Summary: Those who walk the path of destiny cannot afford to dream, even as a child.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything from Final Fantasy X. Those rights belong to Square Enix.

**Author's Note: **One-shot, drabble, Bahamut-centric. I fudged up the Final Fantasy X timeline slightly, so apologies for that.

**Pairing: **None.

* * *

><p>Bahamut, the celestial child, eternal guardian of Saint Bevelle.<p>

He is the beloved fayth that summoners cling to, for while he may not be the final aeon, he is the benevolent entity that can strike a spark of hope even in the most glacial of hearts.

But what of the boy?

He was nothing more than mere cattle, born and bred with a single purpose, the destination that seeks out every bovine: the slaughterhouse. He knew nothing of dreams nor hope, for what use would they have been to him? The end result would always be the same, for no amount of wishes nor tears could divert his fate.

No one ever mourned him.

* * *

><p>When she walked in, he thought very little of her; eyes wide and brimming with apprehension, hidden behind hundreds of wisps of rustling paper. She is the chosen messenger this year, the child who bore with her the prayers of all others, a tradition that had been borne the day he was sealed in this tomb.<p>

She trembles with every step, as all children who come to visit him do; how terrifying it must be for them, to be this close to a living corpse. She props the tokens against the side of his tomb in a reverent manner, careful not to disturb the form sealed underneath the glass and stone.

Her next movements are fluid, even at such a young age, the prayers of the ancients well-practiced by her small hands; all the makings of a gifted summoner. Poor child, he muses, she doesn't even realize that she's sealing her own fate.

At the end of her prayer, she pauses, kneeling down beside his grave. The snowy sleeves of her robes skirt across the stone as she reaches out, depositing an old, threadbare doll on top of the dais, the faintest ghost of a whisper crossing her lips.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>Days have passed, yet this memory refuses to fade; his mind torments him, battles against what is in his essence, in his blood, with what he has become, this embodiment of magick and power.<p>

Before his destiny had unfurled, before he became this creature… could it be that _he _is still worth remembering?

A fayth cannot understand hope, but he longs to. This fire threatens to consume him, it burns beneath his skin and festers inside his soul; he is helpless before it. In the creation of this longing, _he _begins to dream.

He dreams of magnificent machina, of times long forgotten, and… of a boy.

* * *

><p>He has grown weary.<p>

Many moons have come and gone since he entered this stasis, teetering on the edge of the abyss, between reality and the surreal. He craves a day when this spiral will end, a time when he might be able to rest in peace.

The girl, whom once visited him as a child, has now grown into a woman; her time is spent in cloisters, staff in hand and prayer beads encircling her wrists, awaiting the call of an aeon.

Perhaps she may be the one to end this.

And so he guides her, using his dream as a beacon to illuminate her pathway, towards her destiny. Eventually, she stumbles across him.

* * *

><p>Her breathing is labored when she enters his chamber, sweat beading across her brow and tears staining her porcelain skin.<p>

The soft silk of her gown rustles as she makes her way toward him, her step solemn and firm, though her eyes betray her. Those heterochromatic irises are full of fear, but no longer for herself; this girl carries the weight of Spira on her shoulders and mourns for all she sees.

Only then does he realize that he made the right choice in bestowing this fate upon her; only a person who could love so many yet forsake their own desires would be able to end his suffering.

She falls to her knees before him, a fresh wave of tears blossoming across her cheeks as she cradles her hands in prayer, her voice trembling.

"Please lend me your strength."

And without a moment's hesitation, he does.

* * *

><p>He will lead her through the fog, towards the heart of despair.<p>

She will discover the demon hidden behind the veil, whose corporal form exists only inside another, the procurer of this plague. She will be the harbinger of his destruction and with each bend of her step, she will bring peace to all.


End file.
